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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28028490">Fixing It</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purple_Starflower/pseuds/Purple_Starflower'>Purple_Starflower</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Ending, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Complete, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hurt Dean Winchester, Jack Kline as God, M/M, One Shot, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:01:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,326</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28028490</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purple_Starflower/pseuds/Purple_Starflower</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events of S15E19 (Inheriting the Earth).</p><p>Jack Kline is God and he intends to fix a few things as he inherits this responsibility! Jack as the omniscient narrator, we watch the Winchesters heal from their loss and rebuild their lives! </p><p>Just trying to undo the psychological damage that 15 x 20 inflicted on me! Hope y'all enjoy this!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fixing It</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Endings are hard. </p><p>This is something my grandfather used to say. </p><p>I don't disagree with him, not really. But I don't think I agree with him either. </p><p>Endings are hard, yes, but they're also….inevitable. They're hard because they have to be lived, not because they have to be written. Orchestrated. Dictated. </p><p>But my grandfather never understood these things. He was a writer, you see, and his stories were all he had. </p><p>I think he got too wrapped up in writing them to remember that they could exist without him - that he'd only needed to set the wheel turning, not direct its path. </p><p>I learned from his mistakes, though. </p><p>I am here now, on the cusp of things. Here, as this story frays into the beginnings of the next and I think...I think I begin to understand endings, too.</p><p>                                   *** </p><p>I look to those I called family, first. </p><p>I know, I know. I am supposed to be unbiased and unattached. But there is little in this world that could win over family. </p><p>God certainly didn't. </p><p>A little responsibility hardly stood a chance. </p><p>So, I look, and I find.</p><p>                                     ~ </p><p>The air in the bunker has a heaviness to it tonight, a somber weight that feels oppressive and stifling. Something that would clog your throat, leaden your arms, cloud your sight. </p><p>Still, Sam and Dean do not leave. </p><p>They are hunched over the wooden table now, warm beers nestled in scarred hands, trading broken, stilted words and laughter that echoes off the empty corners.</p><p>In the silence that hovers over them in between the words, Sam looks to Dean, brows creased. And Dean picks at the slivers of wood protruding from the carvings of their names. </p><p>Our names.</p><p>S. W. </p><p>D. W.</p><p>M. W. </p><p>C A S T I E L</p><p>
  <em>J A C K</em>
</p><p>It is not easy to exist in this space with them, with the grief surrounding them like a storm cloud, with anger simmering under their skins, guilt flooding their veins.</p><p>It is not easy. </p><p>But it is an ending, this. </p><p>Well, a part of it, anyway.</p><p>And it is inevitable. </p><p>                                      ***</p><p>When Dean wakes the next morning, he is quiet. He does not bustle. He does not rush. He does not groan, neither does he smile.</p><p>He is not loud as he once was. His footsteps do not sound the way they used to, and his music doesn't slither around the hallways. He is not more, as he had always seemed to me; his presence seems shrunken, folding in on itself. </p><p>But somehow, he is not beaten down. Not completely. Not just yet.</p><p>There is an odd strength there, in the way he goes about his day, pulling flannel over his arms, breaking eggs over a hot skillet, folding notes into old tomes, flipping through the news to find their next haunt. An odd defiance that is not quite...explicable. </p><p>A spark of a thing that means to be human, to fight. </p><p>                                 ***</p><p>When Sam wakes the next morning, he is quiet. He does not leave the bunker to stretch his body. He does not pour hot water into his chipped mug, steeping two bags of tea in it. </p><p>He is not careful, as he once was. His legs stumble, and his fingers curl around the neck of a bottle of whiskey. He eats the eggs Dean serves him, and doesn't balk at the bacon he is served with it. </p><p>When he reads the notes folded into old tomes, he is not excited. When he is told about their next haunt, he is only resigned. Determined and ready, yes, but resigned. </p><p>Still, he is not beaten down. Not completely. Not just yet.</p><p>See, Sam Winchester has lost much in his life, and if it has taught him anything, it is to let the grief pass through you. So he lets his eyes water, lets his parched throat wet itself with the burn of alcohol, lets his mind swim through the heaviness within. </p><p>And he knows, there will be a moment, when the surface breaks. A moment his lungs will fill with crisp, fresh air, and the world will stop to sway. But until then, he swims, knowing the only way out is through. </p><p>Sam Winchester has lost much in his life, but he has not lost everything. </p><p>He still has his brother. </p><p>He still has his hope. </p><p>                                    ***</p><p>It is a nest of vampires that they run into. </p><p>Odd things, they are, these vampires. Like caricatures from Dean's favourite horror films. Masks pulled over their heads, teeth hidden behind thick fabric. Their only weapons disguised in favour of...theatrics. </p><p>It <em>is</em> a nest, however, and the Winchesters are only two. The odds are not in their favour, even with their guns and their machetes. </p><p>But, you see, Sam and Dean are heroes. </p><p>And maybe their story is over. Maybe the hand that blessed them once, cursed them another time, is no more. Maybe the luck that runs through their veins has dried up. </p><p>Maybe they are simply two men now, fighting the impossible, with little on their side. </p><p>Before their story ever began, that is the thing that made them heroes. It is what makes them heroes today. </p><p>And they do not lose. </p><p>                                      ~ </p><p>Omniscience is an odd thing to experience. It is not a word I am overly fond of speaking out loud, either. I do little of that now, though, so it is not as bad. </p><p>Still, it does feel very weird, knowing and seeing and feeling all there ever was, is or will be. It is not a thing I can stop, though. Not a thing I can control. For I am everywhere, just as I can see everywhere.</p><p>So, it is not by choice that I am here, reliving my father's death for eternity. (He wasn't truly my father, perhaps, but he is the only father I have known). It is not by choice that I must be reminded of the sacrifice he made for me- that I witness one heartbreak after another in this dingy, underground concrete room. </p><p>It is not by choice that I am here when Castiel speaks his last words. </p><p>
  <em>I love you.</em>
</p><p>A promise. A confession. A prayer. </p><p>And soon he is gone, and the world is emptier, heavier, lesser.</p><p>                                    ***</p><p>It is not by choice that I am here when Dean's whispered words echo through the emptiness left behind. </p><p>
  <em>Me, too. Me, too. Me, too. </em>
</p><p>                                   ~ </p><p>The universe never needed meddling. But once you did meddle, there were consequences. Consequences governed by laws that were at the very core of creation. </p><p>When you're an arrogant writer, as my grandfather was, it is an annoyance to have to obey the thing you created. But me? I was a thing made, born into this creation. I was raised to be part of it.</p><p>I understand the rules of this universe better than anyone else, not because I am blessed with the knowledge, but because I am a consequence, come to consciousness.</p><p>I understand the burden that will weigh me down if I do what I intend to. I know how easy it will be to fall prey to the allure of being part of this story like my grandfather did. </p><p>Here's the thing, though. <em>I am not my grandfather.</em> I am not a writer perfecting a story. I am already a greater part of it than he ever will be, and I am free from its pull the way he never was. </p><p>So, I meddle. Conscious of the price I will pay. Willingly, guiltlessly, almost nonchalantly, I meddle. </p><p>Because the universe might never have needed meddling, but it sometimes needed fixing.</p><p>And I wouldn't be a Winchester if I didn't fix that which needed it. </p><p>                                       ~ </p><p>The thing about living with grief is that it never truly goes away. It is a stone that weighs your soul down, a thing with gravity enough to bend your spine. It is with you, until your very last breath. </p><p>But, like all burdens, it becomes easier to carry every day. It strengthens you, the molten gold in the cracks of your heart. It becomes something that is as much a part of you as your flesh and bones. </p><p>If anyone knows this about grief, it is the Winchesters. And so, even when it feels like the next breath would not fill their lungs, they keep living. </p><p>                                   ***</p><p>Sam finds solace in the world that never stopped needing them, even after their story was over. He works, reading spells and brewing potions, drawing book after book from shelves to find the thing that would keep this demon - that god, this monster - at bay. </p><p>He works until there is no space left for his grief to curl inside in his mind. And whatever space he cannot fill with words and chants and rituals, he fills with the exhaustion of a run, a fight, an embrace. </p><p>And so it goes, and it gets easier. Not quite always, and not soon, but it does. </p><p>And that is enough. </p><p>                                 ***</p><p>Dean...is different. He is fiercely loyal to the world, but that was never the thing that made it all worth it for him. He is a simpler man, in a way, because all he has ever needed was love. From his brother, his mother. From Castiel. </p><p>So he doesn't chase the monsters in books like his brother, but he hunts them with terrible ferocity. He doesn't seek exhaustion like his brother, but he submits to the emptiness at the bottom of a bottle. </p><p>He spends the time he has left clearing the remnants of the people they've lost from their home. He finds a cheap ring of tarnished silver at the bottom of a drawer in his mother's room. He knows it is not an important talisman. It is hardly a talisman, at all. But it is something of hers. <em>It is everything of hers. </em></p><p>So he slips it through a silver chain and loops it around his neck. The ring falls over his beating heart, and it is silly, he knows, but with every breath he takes, he feels a little closer to the mother he has lost. </p><p>Cas' room is emptier. There is one thing there, however, that catches the beat of his heart. He slips it into his pocket, and keeps it there. </p><p>He carries the old walkman with him everywhere, now. A cassette tape sits in its slot - a gift he'd once given, a gift that had been returned to him. It is a charm to him, the way the ring over his heart is, the way an amulet had once been. His fingers brush over its plastic and metal, and there is comfort there, for a moment, in grounding a past that wasn't given a future. </p><p>Still, there are days he cannot bear the guilt of having lived at a cost he deems too high, and on those days he buries himself in darkness until it is a physical thing enveloping him. He rides the anger and the guilt, and this he does with ease. It is sometimes graceful, sometimes destructive. </p><p>But the clouds always clear. And the day is a tad brighter every time. </p><p>                                    *** </p><p>Sam wears his grief on his sleeve, and Dean holds it close to his chest like a secret. </p><p>And it is a while before they are ready to share this weight, to let their burdens lighten ever so slightly. </p><p>The nights are colder when they do, frost creeping over glass panes, snowflakes nestling in eyelashes, moonlight pale but not warm. They are sitting at the dinner table this time, their phones turned screen-side down. </p><p>Things have been changing around them, and life is trying to fix itself, winding into a pattern that will become a rhythm soon. The air around them is thinner, tonight. And when the silence encroaches the space between them, Sam is brave. </p><p>He broaches it with questions about the night they do not speak of anymore. Dean wavers, his knuckles paling as he grips the fork in his hands harder. But then he sighs, sips from the glass of amber liquid by his plate, and begins to tell his story. </p><p>When he is finished, there are tears blurring his vision. His brother holds him as he sucks in a breath, somewhere between a sob and a broken laugh. They stay that way for a while, drawing strength from each other, like they have done their entire lives. </p><p>Their tears are but salty tracks drying on their cheeks, and their breaths are deeper when they straighten up, smoothing the creases on their checkered sleeves. </p><p>Dean quips about their moment of vulnerability, and Sam laughs, and it is different, but it is familiar. </p><p>They talk through the night, trading stories they hid within themselves all those weeks ago. Their memories are blurry - they are older than they think themselves to be - and so they snap their fingers as they try to recall a name, a place, an event. And there is laughter that does not echo in the empty corners, and silence that is not too loud. </p><p>And it is easier now, to breathe. Easier to carry the weight of the grief than it was before. Easier to stomach the world, to put one foot in front of the other. </p><p>Easier to live. </p><p>                                         ~ </p><p>I have been here thrice. </p><p>And it is not a place I am fond of, even now, when I have no cause to fear it. There is a tether that binds me to here, however. For it is the place that birthed me when I was reborn. </p><p>The emptiness under my feet feels solid even though I know it isn't, and it is eerie, still, to think that a thing that is the manifestation of non-existence...well, <em>exists</em>. </p><p>I trail a hand through the inexplicable texture of everything around me, and the Empty wakes with a sigh. I do not jostle it like I did last time. I do not startle it into a wide-eyed insomnia. I do not anger it. </p><p>Instead, I only nudge. I mould my way through its mosaic until I find him. </p><p>Once I do, I lift my fingertips to his sleeping brows, and rouse him to life. </p><p>                                     ~ </p><p>It is Sam's idea. It always had been.   </p><p>First, it is only calls to their friends. Their family. The girls in Sioux Falls, the friends in Duluth. Then, it is the little gatherings. </p><p>Dean is reluctant, just as he had been before (not everything changes, even after everything changes), but he has a ring around his neck, a walkman in his pocket, and a brother by his side, -hope shining in his eyes -, and he is not so cynical to think this worthless. </p><p>After all, they both knew, the worst was already over. </p><p>It is not just them, however. The other hunters are unsure, too, the memory of a slaughter all too fresh in their minds for them to be too willing. But the thing about humans is that they're not the sort to give up easily. </p><p>So, yes, there are gatherings. Little ones at first, but they grow larger as time goes. Word spreads and people flock to the bunker, some to offer assistance, some to ask it.</p><p>The world that was shattered stitches itself together so, slowly, but surely, and on the bones of something that left scars on them all, there are buds of a future. </p><p>So here is a world, reborn, that needs a little fixing. A little rebuilding.</p><p>And they would not be the Winchesters if they didn't fix that which needed it. </p><p>                                ~ </p><p>I am powerful now. More so than I have ever been. But it is not always about power. </p><p>There is an intricacy to what I need to do, a nuance that demands a skill of me that I do not quite possess yet. It does not come to me so easily as it did to my grandfather. Perhaps in this one thing, I envy him. </p><p>Still, I am willing, and I am ready, and that is something. I also have a little help, and that is much more than just <em>something</em>. </p><p>He is here with me, now, guiding my every step. An angel on my shoulder. A father, in every sense of the word that matters. A friend. </p><p>And together, we unwind the threads, we stitch up the holes; we remake and rebuild. </p><p>We fix the things that need fixing.</p><p>                                  ~ </p><p>It is a long time, and yet not so long, before I set foot in the bunker once again. I walk in the body I was born into, a tether that I do not need, but one that this visit merits, nonetheless. </p><p>It is empty rooms and hallways that greet me, and I savour the place as it is for a few moments. This is home, but this was the only home, once. And it feels like stepping into a fire-warmed room after a cold night, coming back here, trailing my hand over the clean, clinical walls, letting my feet brush the rough, aged carpet. </p><p>I do not need memory to guide me, but it does that anyway, and I am in the room with the table that bears the names of the people I called family. People I call family. </p><p>The brothers are here - one sitting, while the other stands over his shoulder -, their heads bent, eyes searching for something on the screens in front of them. </p><p>It is the scuff of my tennis shoe that startles them, and Dean, almost instinctively, reaches for the gun tucked into the waistband of his worn jeans. </p><p>There is a moment there, in between their first spotting me here, and the recognition dawning on their faces, that an eternity could be folded into. </p><p>It is Dean who reaches me first, his arms pulling me into an embrace that feels like home. Like coming back here after all this time. Like hearing my mother's voice the first time. </p><p>I hear a whimper in my ear, one that escapes his lips, and he cradles my head, like I am a child, still. Like all that I am to the universe will always be something that comes after all that I am to him. </p><p>And, perhaps, he is right. </p><p>                                   *** </p><p>It is a moment before the storminess my disruption brings is quieted. It is a moment, or perhaps it is longer. Time slides through me, and I through it, so I cannot truly tell. </p><p>But we are here now. At the table, once more. Our hands clutching bottles of the same cheap beer that was my first, our voices too raw, too unsure to say much of anything. </p><p>I realize I must begin somewhere, somehow. But it is hard, which is an unexpected hurdle. I look to the men who sit before me now, and I note that they are older. Their skin doesn't quite sag, just yet, but there is grey at their temples, spots of white like salt in their beards. When they smile, the lines dig deeper into the skin by their eyes than they ever had before. </p><p>It is disconcerting in a way I do not expect, and there is an ache behind my ribs when I gauge how much we have lost, how little we had. In time. In people. In life. </p><p>Still, I am here for a reason. So I smile, and it is pained, but it is also real, and that is enough. </p><p>I tell them why I call on them and there is hurt and confusion and anger in their faces. I realize that they have been betrayed too many times, burned too often, for them to see this for the gift that it is meant to be. The choice that it truly is. </p><p>Dean turns his face away from mine, and Sam begins to ask me a question, hurt lacing his voice and his words. And it is all too familiar, this distance I feel now. This chasm that seems uncrossable. </p><p><em>I am not my grandfather</em>, I tell myself. And neither am I the boy that was their ward. I am a little bit like the both of them, but I am neither. I am more now, and in some ways, <em>less.</em>..and so this time I cross the earth before the chasm can widen. </p><p>I answer the questions on their lips before they are given sound. I tell them that it is a choice, that I offer, not a deal. Not an obligation. Not a sentence. </p><p>It is a choice, a gift that can be turned away. A thing that can be rejected without fear or judgement. </p><p>I do not think they understand. Not quite yet. They still have things to do here, and they will not leave with me today. This, I had known. But it still aches, in that spot between my ribs, when I have to leave alone. </p><p>I leave them with a farewell that feels inadequate, with words that don't quite carry the breadth of feeling. I leave them with an embrace that crushes the ribs in this body together, that leaves a searing ache where a heart would be. I leave them with a reminder that I am here,<em> I am always here,</em> just not in this body, with this voice. </p><p>I leave them with tokens that can call on me when they're ready. If they're ready. </p><p>I leave them, for one last time, and it is not easy. </p><p>But this is an ending.</p><p>                                      ~ </p><p>There is little choice in the end a hero meets. Such is the nature of their story. A warrior must die in battle. A strategist, of madness. A benevolent leader, in a sickbed. </p><p>A hunter is hunted, a killer is killed. A poetic meting out of justice, a twisted fate, a kind of tragedy in an ending meant to bring peace and closure.</p><p>Like I've said often before, his stories were really all my grandfather had. I do not fault him completely for doing this to his creation - a thing he claims to love. Not on the days when all I can dredge up, as thoughts of him flit about my mind, is pity. </p><p>In this final story he has written, this is another thing that I fix. </p><p>I give the heroes a choice. Of peace. Of contentment. Of the moment where they can catch their breath, where they can lay their arms down, pass their burden on, and say, It is over. I am ready. </p><p>I give them the gift of an ending. </p><p>                                  ~ </p><p>Heaven is quiet, when I am called. </p><p>On Earth, it feels like every breathing thing has taken pause, like it, too, knows. I make my way to the old bunker, still not worse for all the wear it has seen. </p><p>This time I am startled when I see them. It has been a long time, I realize, since I was here last. </p><p>
  <em>A long, long time. </em>
</p><p>And the ache is there, but there is something else there, too. Something a little like pride, like joy.</p><p>They tell me they are ready, a small smile on each of their faces and I believe them. When I take their hands, they look around at the place that is home, and their eyes water and their smiles widen. </p><p>And I think about their legacy.</p><p>                                  ~</p><p>They never had children, so to speak. But they have had me. They have had the young people that they trained and taught, that they fought with and loved. So fully. So fiercely. </p><p>They never married, but they have had love. The kind of love that filled their hearts, and blessed their souls. Sam has had Eileen, an eternity he has cherished. And Dean has had the memory of a gift given, tucked into the pockets of his jacket. And it is enough, somehow. It always had been. </p><p>It is the last thing he touches, now - the old, unspooling cassette tape, as if he is uttering a prayer. As if he is parting with the last tether of a memory. As if this is goodbye. </p><p>And it is not easy to watch, to bear witness to this. </p><p>But this is an ending, and so I persevere. I squeeze their palms with mine, and then will myself away, taking them with me. </p><p>Taking them home. </p><p>                                     ~ </p><p>It is not a goodbye, though. Not really. </p><p>But I do not tell them that, not just yet. </p><p>This is another gift, I suppose. One I've kept hidden from them too long.</p><p>                                    ~ </p><p>There is a story my mother once told me. About an angel named Castiel. She told me he was crafted from the light that shines the brightest in this world - the light that glitters on the surface of the sea like diamonds, the light that softens the darkness in an empty room at night, the light that bathes the world in silver and gold when there is nothing but silence and snow. </p><p>She told me he was crafted from the light that shines the brightest in this world, and that he is my father. She told me that I will shine, a star in his image. That I will be the warmth his light ushers in.</p><p>It is not of import, if the stories my mother told me were the truth. But they were true enough. </p><p>And it is easier to believe in them, now, when it is a time that is neither dawn, nor dusk and Heaven is quiet, and I answer my call. </p><p>It is easier to believe in them now, when I return with the men who saved the universe, and he waits for us there, in the open field. </p><p>In this place in between places, in between times, he waits, his face upturned, drinking in a yellow sun, savouring the light that gilds his raven hair and fair skin like a halo. He waits with his wings outstretched, fanned about him, and it is almost impossible to deny the stories my mother told me. Stories of Castiel, the Angel of Thursday, the Angel made of Light. </p><p>                                   ~ </p><p>It is Dean who finds him first, of the two, and there is a gasp, a thing that steals a breath he no longer needs. He cannot see the face of the angel, not quite, but he does not need to. He never has. <em>Such is the nature of their story. </em></p><p>                                    ~ </p><p>When the brothers look to me, they are young once more in all but the glint of their eyes. They look the way they did on the day of my birth. On the day I was reborn. On the day the universe demanded one last thing from them.</p><p>They look like they did when they were heroes in a story they didn't know was being written. </p><p>It is fitting, I suppose. </p><p>There are questions in their eyes when they look at me. This isn't the Heaven they know. <em>And Castiel…</em></p><p>"I've been fixing things," I tell them with a smile.</p><p>                                   ~ </p><p>It is a moment longer before the angel's eyes drop from the skies and when he looks, he beams. It has been too long; it has not been long at all. It has been a moment and an eternity, but it is all now the past and it is time to move forward. </p><p>                                   ~ </p><p>It is...hard to speak. The word <em>"goodbye"</em> weighs my tongue down, even when I know this is hardly that. </p><p>This is an ending for me, though. </p><p>The last thing I am needed for. </p><p>So, yes, it is hard. </p><p>But, this is an ending, and it is inevitable. </p><p>                                    ~ </p><p>In the end, I do not say the word. I think the brothers know, just as well as I do, that this is farewell. Of a kind, anyway. There is a certain defiance to that sort of thing when you're human, though. And I carry a bit of that humanity in me, still. </p><p>So I do not speak the words. I only nod, and they nod back, tears shining in their eyes. </p><p>And it is a moment, and an eternity, and Dean is already turning, his eyes following the only light they have ever looked for, and Sam squares his shoulder, a hand lifting, poised, almost, hovering mid-air, and it is stillness and movement and before it starts, it stops. </p><p>And I am gone. </p><p>                                    ~</p><p>I am gone, and I am here. </p><p>The brothers do not look. Do not falter. They know I am here, in the stalks of the grass that brushes their knees, in the golden light that bathes this world, in the breeze that will carry their breaths and words, and joy and sorrow. </p><p>They know, and they are ready, and they look to each other once more before they step forward into the rest of eternity. </p><p>                                    ~ </p><p>It is a field bathed in golden light, and it is a place in between places and in between times, and it is here that the heroes get the ending they were denied many times. </p><p>It is here that the gilded angel finds his soul, and here that the men who were always too much, always too little, find the freedom that seemed to evade them - find their peace forever. </p><p>                                       ~ </p><p>Dean Winchester does not rush. He does not sprint. He does not stumble over his feet, he does not scramble. </p><p>He is older now, and he has known peace. He knows there is time. </p><p>There is a moment, and an eternity. </p><p>So, he only walks. And when they reach the angel, it is Sam who wraps his big arms around Castiel first. It is he who lets out a breath that is a laugh and a sob. It is he who pulls Dean into them both, and they sink into the ground together in a tangle of limbs. </p><p>It is not graceful, and it is not perfect, but it is beautiful. It is enough. </p><p>                                     ~ </p><p>There is one last ending left, one ending I must witness before the wheel turns, and this story frays into the next one. </p><p>And so I am here when the light from the sun is slanted, and here is Dean, and here is Castiel, and this...this is their ending. </p><p>It is not easy, though, to watch. As Dean lifts a steady hand to the angel's cheek, as Castiel leans into the warmth of the hand he has missed for too long. As they draw close enough to share the same breath. As they press their foreheads together, their fingers intertwined. Here is a tear that falls from Dean's eyes, shining like a pearl, and here it slides down Castiel's cheek, like a comet leaving a trail of stardust. And it is like they are one, and they are whole, and it is too much, and not enough. Overwhelming and heartbreaking. </p><p>It is a moment that breaks and folds, the collision of stars, the gliding feather on a breeze. </p><p>And there is a whisper that leaves Dean's lips, and it is a thing that soothes and caresses. </p><p><em><strong>"I love you,"</strong> </em>he says, words he wishes he had said an eternity ago. Words he has whispered into emptiness for years. Words he hopes will be enough.</p><p>And it is a confession. A promise. A prayer. </p><p>It is hope.</p><p>                                    ~ </p><p>You see, it is not easy to witness this...ending of endings. A moment that is a reminder of how much it has cost, a reminder of how much I have taken, even with all that I have given. </p><p>No. It is not easy, this thing that signals the closing of the curtains, this last sentence of the story. Still, it is inevitable. </p><p>And I am leaving now, morphing into the thing the universe will make me into for the next turn of the wheel my grandfather set in motion, the wheel that doesn't quite need so much fixing anymore. </p><p>So, yes, it is an ending. But there is still an eternity left, so, perhaps, it is also a beginning. </p><p>                                 ****</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey everyone! I know I haven't posted here in so long but the beast that was Supernatural S15E20 destroyed my life and made me want to write again so here we are! Fix it fanfiction is hard to write, but I tried my best! Hope y'all enjoyed it! Leave a comment if you do, because I'd love nothing more! Thank you! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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